


The Holly Bears A Berry Red As Any Blood

by neglectedtuesday



Series: The Steter Network Monthly Prompts [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Christmas, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mage Stiles Stilinski, Magical Realism, Mild Gore, Miscommunication, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, The Steter Network Monthly Prompts, Werewolf Courting, Winter Solstice, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 23:30:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12994878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neglectedtuesday/pseuds/neglectedtuesday
Summary: Stiles swears as the car hits another pothole dead on and he goes flying out of his seat, hardly restrained by the seat belt, smacking his head on the roof.“Language,” John says mildly, turning the page of his newspaper. Stiles grumbles, rubbing the back of his head. He can feel a lump developing.“Every year,” Stiles says, “every goddamn year, the Hales send their craziest driver to pick us up. Every year we hit every pothole and every year I get a lump on my head. In the same place! How this hasn’t damaged me permanently I don’t know?!”





	The Holly Bears A Berry Red As Any Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays!
> 
> The celebrations within this fic is a combination of Yule, Saturnalia and Winter Solstice traditions. I hope everyone enjoys it, have a wonderful holiday period.

Stiles swears as the car hits another pothole dead on and he goes flying out of his seat, hardly restrained by the seat belt, smacking his head on the roof. 

 

“Language,” John says mildly, turning the page of his newspaper. Stiles grumbles, rubbing the back of his head. He can feel a lump developing. 

 

“Every year,” Stiles says, “every goddamn year, the Hales send their craziest driver to pick us up. Every year we hit every pothole and every year I get a lump on my head. In the same place! How this hasn’t damaged me permanently I don’t know?!”

 

John makes a vague asserting noise and flicks the next page of his newspaper. 

 

“I don’t even know why we are going to the Hales when I specifically asked for a quiet Winter Solstice.”

 

“We go to the Hales every year. It’s tradition. I allowed you to skip a few years due to your studies but you’ve graduated now.”

 

Stiles folds his arms across his chest, sliding down his seat. It’s not that he doesn’t like the Hales, they’ve been family friends since before Stiles was born. Though in the last few years, the only one Stiles has had regular contact with is Peter. Stiles has somewhat mixed feelings about Peter Hale. 

 

On the one hand, Peter is the only one who can match Stiles in sarcastic banter. On the other, Peter is a manipulative little shit who delights in pushing Stiles buttons. Thrown together as children, their parents assumed that Peter being a couple of years older would be fine and he would love to essentially babysit Stiles. It took a while for them to become actual friends, it was only after Stiles’ mother died that Peter toned down some of his sharper edges. So from children delighting in teasing each other to the point of light bullying to an actual functioning adult relationship, Stiles has come to value Peter’s friendship. This doesn’t mean that Stiles hasn’t thought about punching him. And, on occasion, has punched him. Though he supposes that’s the nature of being best friends, you adore them as much as you want to strangle them.

 

Stiles is just not looking forward to this. The annual Hale Winter Solstice Celebrations start a few days before the 21st, beginning with the Winter Ball. Stiles despises the Winter Ball. Years of standing awkwardly in a corner wearing an uncomfortable suit, drinking heavily spiced mulled wine and working up the nerve to ask Lydia to dance despite knowing he will be told no and thus being ridiculed by Peter. While Peter mocks him mercilessly the other festivities are not necessarily awful, games and merriment and so forth. But Stiles has become used to celebrations with friends in the Driodheachd dorms, which were a lot more relaxing and with significantly less pageantry. 

 

John lowers the newspaper, fixing Stiles with his  _ I’m-disappointed-in-your-behaviour  _ look. Stiles averts his eyes. 

 

“The Hales have always been good to us.”

 

“I know, I know.”

 

“They will want to see how you’ve grown, how you’ve learnt to use your magic. They may even want to court you as an emissary.”

 

Stiles stops picking at a stray thread of the seat and looks up at his father in confusion. 

 

“Talia already has an emissary.”

 

John puts the paper down. He seems to be trying to formulate a sentence in such a way that won’t cause Stiles to, in John’s mind, overreact. Stiles sits up properly.

 

“A little while ago, around the time of your last exams, we had a little trouble with some rogue Alphas.”

 

“What?”

 

John raises his hands in a placating manner.

 

“We dealt with it, there was no need to tell you. You didn’t need the distractions especially during your exams.”

 

“So you were perfectly fine with lying to me. What if you’d gotten hurt?”

 

“Stiles, it was dealt with. However, in the process, the Hale pack gained another alpha.” 

 

“So had that not happened, you were just going to pretend everything was fine. Anything else you’ve lied about since I’ve been away? Aside from sticking to your diet.”

 

John returns to his paper. Stiles rolls his eyes, slouching in his seat. He stares out of the window.

 

“Wait, who’s the alpha?”

 

“Peter.”

 

Stiles jaw drops open.

 

Stiles last letter from Peter was a little over a week ago, which is how Stiles knows his father has been slacking on his diet. Peter never mentioned a recent upgrade to his werewolf status. Stiles goes back to picking at the thread, not sure how he feels about that.

 

//

 

“You know,” Stiles snaps, slamming his suitcase shut, “you could be a bit more excited for me. I’m going to Driodheachd, you know only the best get into Driodheachd.” 

 

Peter stares moodily out of the window. Stiles sighs, fed up of Peter’s attitude the past few days. It’s like he doesn’t even care that Stiles is leaving and that hurts. It causes a strange ache to build in Stiles stomach, like the time he ate too many sherbert lemons in one sitting. Stiles pulls his suitcase off the bed.

 

“Fine, be like that. See if I write to you at all.”

 

Stiles heads for the door, willing himself not to cry. Peter grabs his arm before he can touch the doorknob. It jars him slightly and Stiles drops his suitcase. 

 

“I don’t want you to go,” Peter mumbles, staring intently at his hand on Stiles forearm.

 

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

 

“I said,” Peter says through slightly gritted teeth, “I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay here with me. Your magic is perfect as is, you don’t need to go to some idiotic school. If you really need teaching then I’m sure Deaton can teach you.”

 

“And where do you think he learnt magic?”

 

Peter growls, his control slipping a little. Fangs peek out from under his top lip. Stiles smiles, a little exasperated, a little fond. He yanks Peter into a tight hug, pressing his nose into Peter’s shoulder.

 

“I’ll write every single day,” Stiles promises. He leans back to cross his heart for emphasis. “I’ll be back before you know it. The Winter Solstice isn’t that far away.”

 

“When you come back, you won’t smell like pack anymore,” Peter whines, tugging Stiles close again. “You won’t smell like mine.”

 

“I’m not a possession Peter.”

 

Peter noses at Stiles hair and doesn’t answer. Stiles didn’t know Peter felt so strongly about this. He doesn’t want to leave, wishes he could take Peter with him. Peter is so smart, Stiles bets he could learn magic in a second if he wanted to. If Peter was with him, Stiles would have a good friend and leaving his family wouldn’t be so scary. 

 

But Peter is a werewolf, not a mage and therefore can’t come with him.  So Stiles will just have to do the next best thing.

 

“Do you maybe, want to keep some of my shirts and I take some of yours?” Stiles suggests. “That way I’ll still have pack smell on me.”

 

Peter leans back. He smiles in a way that makes Stiles stomach do somersaults. 

 

“That is an excellent idea.” 

 

//

 

To Stiles amazement they manage to make it to Hale Manor without careering off the road, though Stiles has to pry his fingers off the armrest once the car comes to a stop. John folds his newspaper, tucking it under his arm as he exits. Stiles sits for a few seconds, breathing in and out slowly as he reaches across the seat to grab his bag. 

 

“Come on Stiles,” John says. Stiles takes one more deep breath, then clambers out. He pulls his coat closer around his body, shoving his hands into the pockets. The winter air is crisp, so sharp it makes the inside of his nostrils sting a little as he inhales. 

 

Hale Manor hasn’t changed at all, the snow making the red brick look blood red in the fading light. Stiles cranes his neck to take it all in as they head up the marble staircase to the front door. Talia is waiting for them. She’s holding a long piece of parchment in her hand, which she studies intently for a moment before handing it to a servant. 

 

“That all looks fine, just make sure the ice sculpture is kept away from the main fireplace, we don’t want a repeat of last year.”

 

The servant nods before heading inside. Talia turns back to them. She smiles, opening her arms to bring John into an embrace.

 

“John, always good to see you. And Stiles, my how you’ve grown.”

 

Stiles lets himself be hugged. Talia smells like pine needles and cinnamon; it makes Stiles feel like a child again except he doesn’t come up to her waist anymore. She presses her cheek to his, scent marking him gently. He scent marks her back, knows that it will make her happy and get this holiday off to a good start. As much as he had complained in the car, he doesn’t hate being here. 

 

The entrance hall is a hive of activity. Maids and footmen rush around, putting up lights and wreaths and other festive regalia. A huge pine tree rests in the corner, the topmost branches brushing the top of the staircase leading to the first floor. Talia’s husband, Joseph, holds up their oldest daughter Laura, so that she can gingerly puts a golden star on the top of the tree, tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth. Stiles assumes it’s Laura, the last time he saw her she was a baby.

 

“We’ll have your bags taken to your rooms,” Talia says, “you’ve arrived in good time, you’ll be able to rest a while before the ball begins.”

 

Stiles nods, watching a few staff roll a cart with an elegant ice sculpture of a wolf past the archway on the left.

 

“Uncle John,” Laura yells, causing Stiles to turn his head back. She jumps down the last few stairs, Joseph striding after her. She rushes over, ignoring her mother’s gentle reprimands to leap into John’s waiting arms. Laura scent marks him clumsily, her eyes flickering gold. 

 

Joseph claps a hand on Stiles shoulder. It almost makes his knees buckle. Stiles is five foot eleven but he feels miniscule compared to Joseph’s six foot four. 

 

“Stiles, my boy, you’re looking well.” Joseph’s voice booms, as if he’s shouting from across the room. 

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Peter will be glad to know you’re here, have you seen him yet?”

 

“No, I haven’t, apparently he has something to tell me.”

 

Joseph’s face contorts into a strange mix of apprehension and nervousness. 

  
“Yes well, he wanted it to be a surprise.”

 

“Yes, act surprised when Peter tells you he’s an alpha,” John interjects, placing Laura on the ground. Stiles can’t quite discern his tone but it seems pointed. Joseph squeezes Stiles shoulder, winking at John. 

 

“Ah yes, that surprise, be surprised Stiles!”

 

“There are other surprises?” Stiles asks. Joseph opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He splutters a bit until Talia interrupts.

 

“Joseph, would you mind checking on the ice sculpture please.”

 

“Of course my love.” Joseph squeezes Stiles shoulder one more time, kisses his wife on the cheek and gets ahold of Laura, who has been staring at Stiles for the past few minutes with the intensity of a very curious small child. “Come along munchkin, let’s go check on the decorations.”

 

“Papa, who is that?” Laura asks, pointing at Stiles over Joseph’s shoulder. 

 

“Laura, that’s Stiles and it’s rude to point.”

 

Stiles waves, twirling his fingers just so and summoning a silver coin out of midair. Laura gasps. Stiles rotates the coin in his hand a few times before making it disappear. 

 

“Papa, Papa, Stiles did magic.” 

 

They disappear around the corner, Laura excitedly chattering to Joseph. 

 

“You keep doing that and she’ll never let you leave,” a smooth, melodious voice says. Stiles spins on his heel. 

 

“Hello Peter,” Stiles says coolly. 

 

Peter smirks. He’s gotten bigger since Stiles last saw him, the rolled up sleeves of his shirt show muscular forearms. He has a light dusting of stubble across his cheeks and chin and he’s cut his hair shorter. The eyes are the same though. A midday winter sky. Beautiful like the ocean, sometimes just as dangerous. Stiles isn’t sure what it is about Peter’s eyes that makes him want to write poetic odes but he’s always been a little bit infatuated with them. He guesses it’s because those eyes seem to convey how much Peter understands Stiles. How much Peter has always understood him. Stiles might be pissed but he will admit that Peter looks good. 

 

“You’ve gotten taller,” Peter comments, eyes tracking up from Stiles brown leather boots up to Stiles face. 

 

“There’s something different about you too, I just can’t seem to place it.” 

 

Peter tilts his head, the edge of his lip curling. 

 

“I’m sure you wish to refresh yourselves after your journey,” Talia says, evidently wishing to reduce the tension. “Peter, why don’t you show Stiles to his room?”

 

“Oh that won’t be necessary,” Stiles says, “If it’s the same one as last time then I’m pretty sure I still remember the way.”

 

John fixes Stiles with a hard stare. He can’t quite do it to the same intensity as Stiles mother used to but the intention is the same. Be polite.

 

“Actually,” Peter says, “We’ve provided you with a different room, if you’ll follow me.”

 

Stiles adjusts the shoulder strap of his bag, following after Peter. They walk in silence as Peter leads Stiles up the stairs to the third floor, along the long corridors lined with portraits. Stiles notes how very little has changed, the portraits still watch him with their creepy eyes and no amount of wreaths and soft candlelight make them any less disturbing. 

 

“You seem a little frustrated,” Peter comments.

 

“Do I?” Stiles replies, “Let’s see I have a lot to be  _ frustrated _ about. Like the fact that the driver Talia sent seemed hell bent on driving us into a ditch. Or that I’ll probably end up in a uncomfortable suit, awkwardly floating around the Winter Ball and not able to get properly drunk because my father is here. Or, and this one is probably the one I’m most _ frustrated _ about, the fact that you’ve been lying to me for months.” 

 

“Stiles…”

 

“There were rogue alphas and you didn’t think I should know about it.”

 

“It was during your exams, we decided it would be for the best…”

 

“Oh, because you know I love other people deciding what’s best for me!”

 

“What exactly would you have done? Hmm. By the time you would have arrived we had already dealt with them. No one got hurt.”

 

“So you just weren’t going to mention it to me, even after the fact. If you hadn’t become an alpha would you ever have told me?”

 

Peter sighs. They’ve come to a stop down a familiar corridor. Peter’s room is a few doors down. 

 

“This was supposed to be a surprise. This was something I felt would be better told in person.”

 

Peter opens the door. Stiles stomps inside, chucking his bag onto a nearby armchair. His coat soon follows. The room is nice, cosy armchairs around a marble fireplace. The fire is already lit, making the room full of sleepy warmth. The wallpaper is decorated with blue birds and rhododendron flowers and there’s an ornately wrapped package on top of navy silk sheets of the bed, tied with silver ribbon. 

 

“Look,” Stiles says, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I don’t care that you’re an alpha. I’m happy for you. But I just don’t like being lied to, especially about my father's safety.” 

 

“He was barely involved.”

 

“That’s not the point, he’s the only family I have left.”

 

Stiles runs a hand through his hair. 

 

“I would hope you consider us to be family,” Peter says. He walks over to Stiles, takes Stiles hands in his own. He rubs his thumb over Stiles skin, a comforting circular motion.

 

“It’s different. You heal, I just… I can’t lose him.”

 

“I know,” Peter murmurs, resting his forehead against Stiles. Stiles closes his eyes, blows out a soft sighing breath. After a minute he pulls back.

 

“So you’re an alpha, that’s exciting.” 

 

“Yes I suppose it is. But they’ll be time for that discussion later, you should open your gift.”

 

Peter leads Stiles over to the bed. Stiles traces the edge of the ribbon with his finger before carefully pulling it. It comes undone with ease. The forest green tissue paper falls away to reveal a white box beneath. Stiles lifts the lid. It’s a suit; a black long coat with a blood red patterned waistcoat, white shirt and black trousers. Stiles holds up the jacket, the material feels expensive. 

 

“Now you can’t complain about your suit being uncomfortable,” Peter says. 

 

“How the hell do you know my measurements?” 

 

“That’s an odd way of expressing gratitude.”

 

Stiles nudges Peter with his elbow. 

 

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

 

“I wanted to. I’ll leave you to relax a little before the ball. I’m sure you’ll save me a dance.”

 

“That’ll be easy seeing as no one ever dances with me,” Stiles mutters, putting the suit back into the box. 

 

“Well then I’ll have you to myself all night.”

 

The door clicks shut behind Peter before Stiles can ask what he means by that. 

 

//

 

The main hall is decorated exquisitely. Along one wall is a decadent feast, full of all manner of self-indulgent treats with the ice sculpture in the centre. Colossal pine trees reside in each corner, strewn with stars, shiny baubles and glittering beads. Wreaths full of dried fruit and pine cones hang from the walls, tingling with protective magical energy. People are mingling around the edges, the middle kept strictly for dancing. 

 

Stiles has spent a large portion of the night answering questions about his recent graduation, mostly from people who never even he noticed he was alive before. He would be amused if they weren’t so clearly angling for his service as a potential emissary. He’s politely turning them down, no matter how murderous they look when he does. They’re all too scared of Talia to dare try to force him. 

 

He’s helping himself to a glass of mulled wine when Lydia Martin approaches. Stiles used to be stupidly gone on Lydia, to the point of continually making a fool of himself in front of her. Despite Lydia generally treating him like an annoying fly, Stiles held onto the hope that she would stop hiding her intelligence and then she’d actually appreciate Stiles devotion. Stiles has come to realise his own stupidity. It helped when he left for Droidheachd and discovered girls who liked him for his personality. And some boys too.

 

“Stiles Stilinski,” Lydia says. Stiles looks up, trying to hide the fact that he’s very alarmed.

 

“Er… yes.”

 

“Dance with me.”

 

Lydia takes him by the hand before he can object. He just manages to put the glass down before he’s swept onto the dancefloor as the string band transitions into the next song. He’s never been much of a dancer but Lydia seems more than happy to lead.

 

“This is new,” Stiles comments. Lydia’s burgundy dress is perfect for spinning, it fans out around her as they waltz. 

 

“I didn’t want to give you false hope before but seeing as you’ve grown out of your crush, I can interact with you properly. Now dip me.”

 

Stiles obliges. 

 

“I’m sorry for making you feel uncomfortable,” Stiles says. Lydia shakes her head.

 

“It’s over and done with. I’m more interested in your thoughts concerning the ecological sustainability of the Nemeton, in regards to the rituals of binding and the current power dynamic changes within Beacon Hills as of late.”

 

“I’m sorry, what?”

 

Lydia raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Lift me and spin. I am referring of course to Peter Hale’s recent change in eye colour and which pack you plan to pledge yourself to. He who controls the Nemeton, controls Beacon Hills.”

 

“You know,” Stiles says, as the music comes to a close. “I really hadn’t thought about it.”

 

They stop dancing. Stiles lets go of Lydia’s hand and waist, joining in with the crowd with applauding the band. 

 

“It is worth thinking about,” Lydia says. She casts an eye over to where Peter appears to be watching them. Deucalion is speaking to him though Peter appears more interested in staring at Lydia and Stiles. Lydia returns the gaze unflinchingly, looping her arm through Stiles and leading him off the dancefloor. 

 

They find a place to stand, near one of the huge windows along the right wall. Snow has started to flutter down outside. Lydia snaps her fingers and a waiter appears out of thin air with two glasses of champagne. Stiles sips his while watching the snow fall.  

 

“Driodheachd was good for you,” Lydia says. Stiles turns to look at her. “You stand up straight now for instance. You’ve stopped trying to make yourself smaller and unobtrusive. It’s good, you’ve stopped pretending you’re not as capable as you are.”

 

“I wasn’t the only one playing dumb.”

 

Lydia smiles. Her crimson lips look bloody in the candlelight. She raises her glass. 

 

“To finally shedding our personas of incompetence.”

 

Stiles clinks his glass against hers.

 

“I’ll drink to that.” 

 

// 

 

Talking to Lydia is surprisingly easy now that there’s no pretense of trying to charm her. They are in the middle of a discussion on the merits of the ritual of oak and mistletoe when Peter wanders over to them. His suit and waistcoat are royal blue. It fits him well. 

 

“Stiles, Lydia.”

 

“Hello Peter,” Lydia says. They’re being polite but there’s an underlying tension. Lydia isn’t bothering to hide her amusement. She takes a sip of her drink, winking at Peter over the rim. 

 

“Stiles I believe you owe me a dance,” Peter says, offering his hand. Stiles places his glass on a nearby waiters tray before allowing Peter to lead him onto the dancefloor. 

 

Peter places a hand on the small of Stiles back, gently pulling him closer. The music begins, a faster tempo than when Stiles danced with Lydia. He’s more than happy to follow. 

 

“So you danced with Lydia Martin,” Peter says. His tone is on the cutting side of mocking.

 

“Yeah, she notices I’m alive when I stop being interested in her,” Stiles replies, “The irony is not lost on me.”

 

Peter’s entire face changes. He smiles, the rare smile that only Stiles ever gets to see. It softens Peter’s features, the usual smug arrogance replaced with a genuine tenderness. Stiles feels privileged that he’s the only one Peter shares it with. 

 

“You look good in your new suit.”

 

“Oh do I? A good friend bought it for me.”

 

“This friend must like you very much.”

 

“One would hope.”

 

Dancing with Peter is an intimate experience. Stiles has never been particularly light on his feet but in Peter’s arms he feels graceful. Almost elegant. Stiles laughs when Peter lifts him up in the air. Over the course of the evening, Stiles shirt has come untucked, thus as Peter grips Stiles hips, his fingertips brush against Stiles bare skin. Peter hands are warm. The nails skate along Stiles hip, a barely there touch that has his skin tingling.

 

As the song comes to an climax Peter dips Stiles. They’re bent so low that their noses are almost touching. Stiles is breathing a little heavily from the dancing. His eyes flick down, noting how close Peter’s mouth is to his. How easy it would be to press up.

 

“Another dance?” Peter asks, his hand sliding Stiles back as he pulls Stiles upright.

 

“I’m good. I think I need a drink, all this dancing is making me thirsty.”

 

Peter’s hand is still on Stiles back. He uses it to guide Stiles through the crowd, heading for the open doors onto the balcony. It’s stopped snowing and servants have cleared the balcony so that guests can walk along it without fear of slipping. The night air is cool on Stiles flushed skin. 

 

Peter reaches into his jacket, pulling out a silver flask with a triskelion embossed on the front. He flicks the lid off, taking a long swig. Stiles watches the line of Peter’s throat. He coughs, averting his eyes and leaning his back against the stone balcony. Peter offers the flask and Stiles takes it. The liquor smells strong of cinnamon and cognac. Stiles takes a sip.

 

“Wow, strong, what is that?”

 

“Winter Sidecar, cognac and martini bianco with a cinnamon rim.”

 

Stiles takes a bigger swig before handing it back, their fingers colliding around the metal. Stiles stops thinking about how handsy they’ve become in the last hour. They’re friends, it’s ok for them to touch, why is he overthinking this? Probably because he’s starting to veer towards the drunk side of tipsy. 

 

“You’ll need to take me to bed,” Stiles says. 

 

“Oh will I?” The grin Peter gives him is downright dirty. 

 

“Not like that,” Stiles replies, pushing at Peter’s shoulder. “My father cannot see me drunk. I will die, right there on the spot.”

 

Peter chuckles. He’s standing so close to Stiles that the low throaty sound is right in his ear. Stiles leans his head back, taking a deep breath of the icy air. The night sky is strewn with stars, the moon a quarter full. Peter nudges his shoulder against Stiles. 

 

“I’m glad you’re home,” Peter murmurs. Stiles rests his head on Peter’s shoulder, a sudden wave of tiredness washing over him. 

 

“So am I,” Stiles mumbles. He can feel his eyelids fluttering closed. 

 

“Ok, let’s get you to bed.” 

 

Stiles doesn’t remember much after that. 

 

//

 

Stiles is walking through woods. The aurora borealis splits the night sky above him, the stars are singing. His bare feet leave no tracks in the snow. 

 

The woods are quiet except for the singing stars. The melody is ethereal like a tip of the tongue thought that slips away before you can catch it. 

 

Stiles comes to two elder trees. They grow in such a way that there is no way around them, he has to walk between them. Two branches stretch about a foot above Stiles head from both trees, meeting in the middle and wrapping around each other as if they are holding hands. Perched on these intertwining branches is a white raven with gold eyes. It tilts its head when Stiles approaches, opening its sharp black beak.

 

_ “COME.” _

 

Stiles follows obediently. The raven leads Stiles down a path lined with elder trees, all equal distance apart. The symmetry makes the path seem endless. Flitting between the trees are doves, sparrows, black ravens and starlings. They watch Stiles with disinterested eyes.

 

The path comes to an end, opening out into a clearing lined with silver birch trees. In the middle is a fire. Stiles can’t make out what is burning. In front of the fire stands a woman, dressed in a long moss green cloak. She is not facing Stiles. Her hair reaches all the way down her back, flaxen gold and glinting in the firelight. 

 

The raven soars overhead, landing on the woman’s shoulder. She reaches up to stroke the raven’s head as she does a three quarter turn to face Stiles.

 

_ “Come close to the fire, Cailleach of the Faoladh.”  _

 

Stiles walks towards the fire. Once he’s close enough to touch, the woman reaches out. She touches his forehead, smiling with rosebud lips. 

 

_ “You have it bad, little cailleach.” _

 

Stiles opens his mouth to ask what he has bad but all that tumbles out is foxglove flowers. The woman pats his cheek affectionately before reaching into the fire. That’s when Stiles sees what is burning. 

 

Human hearts. 

 

The woman plucks a heart from the pile with nimble fingers. She smiles as she presses it to Stiles chest. She pushes it so hard that it goes through the skin, through his rib cage and takes up resident in the empty space he didn’t know he had. It starts beating, hard and fast.

 

_ “There you are cailleach, the rest is up to you.”  _

 

//

 

Stiles wakes up with only a minor headache and a dry mouth that has hints of cinnamon at the edges. He is only conscious because someone is knocking on his door. Loud, repetitive taps. Stiles groans, rubbing his right eye with the palm of his hand. He doesn’t know what time it is but it is definitely too early. 

 

The door creaks open. Stiles picks up a pillow, throwing it in the general direction of whoever’s entering. It makes no impact. 

 

“Rise and shine,” Peter says. His tone is too cheery for Stiles to deal with. He groans when Peter opens the curtains, the sunlight falling across the bed and hitting him directly in the eyes. 

 

“Noooooo.” Stiles does a lazy hand motion and the curtains draw closed once more. 

 

“It’s the hunt for the Yule Log today Stiles, you’ll want to get up now otherwise you’ll miss breakfast.”

 

Stiles burrows further into the pillows. He doesn’t want to leave the bed. The bed is nice. The bed is warm. The bed is not trekking through snow looking for a log. The mattress dips as Peter sits on it. He grips the back of Stiles neck, thumb rubbing at the hinge of Stiles jaw. It’s comforting but only makes Stiles want to stay in bed even more. 

 

“If you keep doing that I’ll just fall asleep again,” Stiles mumbles. Peter makes a soft snorting sound. 

 

“Can’t have that can we?”

 

Peter stands up. Stiles tenses, unsure of what’s about to happen. Peter rips back the covers, grabs Stiles by the ankles and pulls him from the bed. Stiles yelps, making a hasty bid for headboard but Peter is too quick and Stiles ends up on the floor in a pile of bedding.

 

“You bastard.”

 

Peter winks.

 

“Wash yourself, wear something weather appropriate and hurry up or I won’t save you any bacon.” 

 

//

 

Stiles does not like being cold. He’s wearing an undershirt, a blue cotton button up, a huge sheepskin coat, two pairs of socks, tough leather boots, a slightly lopsided knitted hat his mother made years ago, a thick knitted scarf and the winter chill is still seeping in. He raises his hands to his mouth, muttering a soft incantation. Warmth trickles down from the fingertips. 

 

“You going to share that spell with anyone else?” Peter asks. He intertwines his left hand with Stiles right. “Mmmm toasty.”

 

“You’re a wolf,” Stiles points out, taking his hand back. “An alpha one at that. You lot run hot.” 

 

The pack and assorted guests are spread out through the forest, hunting for the perfect Yule Log to burn this evening. They’re supposed to be in teams of four but Stiles seems to have ended up working with Peter solely. Talia, in her wolf form, bounds past them, spraying their calves with powdery snow. Joseph, with toddler Derek strapped to his back and baby Cora strapped to the front, follows in the path she’s made.

 

“You don’t seem to be looking very hard,” Joseph calls. 

 

“Good things come to those who wait,” Peter replies. 

 

“Wait too long and you’ll be hunting in the dark.” Joseph waggles Cora’s chubby hand at them before striding off after Talia.

 

They keep trekking through the woods. The snow makes a satisfying crunch beneath their feet. Stiles isn’t a fan of the woods in Winter, he much prefers Spring. Winter is beautiful in its own way but it’s doesn’t agree with his magic; the spark inside him is always quieter in Winter, more subdued. In Spring it practically takes on a life of its own. Stiles has lost track of the number of times he’s accidentally made flowers and plants burst into life all over the dorms. 

 

“So have you tried to do that?” Stiles enquirers, stepping over a fallen tree. 

 

“Do what?”

 

“The full alpha wolf shift.”

 

“Not yet, it’s not something innate, I’ll have to be guided through it the first few times.” 

 

“I’m sure you’ll pick it up.”

 

“Given how easily I adjusted to being an alpha, I have no doubt of that.”

 

Stiles laughs.

 

“Modesty becomes you.”

 

They come to a frozen river, not too wide that walking across wouldn’t be too hard but Stiles doesn’t trust the ice. 

 

“Shall we head back?” Stiles suggests. 

 

“We could, though I’d hate to lose out to Talia by not returning with a Yule Log.”

 

“You know I can just make one with magic.”

 

“My, my they have been teaching you clever tricks at Driodheadh.”

 

Stiles sticks his tongue out at Peter, hiding his hands behind his back. He mutters a spell out the corner of his mouth, the perfect snowball forming in his hands.

 

“I know what you’re doing Stiles.” 

 

Stiles grins, as a snowball comes flying from behind a tree, smacking into the back of Peter’s head. Peter growls, his eyes flickering red. 

 

“Oh you have no idea what I’m capable of,” Stiles says, throwing his snowball at Peter’s chest. 

 

“We’ll see about that.”

 

//

 

Claudia Stilinski dies when Stiles is seven years old. Stiles, who up until now has only shown the average amount of magic for a boy his age, magically barricades himself in the Hale Library on the fifth floor of the Hale Manor and refuses to allow anyone in. 

 

Peter finds a way in regardless.

 

“Stiles,” Peter calls, winding his way through the tall oak bookshelves. They’re all empty. “Stiles you have to come out! You don’t even live here, this isn’t your library to hide in.”

 

“GO AWAY!”

 

Stiles voice echoes from everywhere, anguished and sore from crying. 

 

“Stiles where are you?”

 

Peter rounds a corner and stops walking. Every single book is floating off the shelves and merrily making their way through the air to form a huge, towering fortress. A copy of Newton’s  _ Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Artes Magicis  _ whacks Peter on the back of the head as it flutters by. Peter growls at it, rubbing his head and flashing his fangs. 

 

The magical book fortress doesn’t seem to have an entrance, though allowances have been made for windows. Peter scrambles up the nearest bookshelf, leaping from the top shelf to one of the larger gaps. It takes some force to wiggle himself through but he manages it. The tightly packed books shut out most of the light from outside. It would be hard to see if Peter wasn’t a werewolf. He walks along a few narrow winding passages until he stumbles out into a wide space. The floor of the fort is made of up some of Claudia’s favourite books.

 

Stiles is curled up in the middle, sniffling softly. His red rimmed eyes are completely white. Despite the situation Peter can’t help but find them pretty.

 

“I told you to go away,” Stiles says, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

 

“Since when have I ever done what you’ve told me to do,” Peter says. He edges closer to Stiles, treating him like a horse that could spook at any time. “It’s going to be ok Stiles.”

 

“My mother is dead!” Stiles sobs, “nothing is ever going to be ok again.”

 

Peter is close enough to touch now. He goes to his knees, slowly and surely reaching for Stiles.

 

“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

 

Peter pulls Stiles into his lap, nuzzles at Stiles cheek like his mother used to do. He keeps Stiles as close as he can, rocking him while Stiles weeps. Peter keeps murmuring nonsense, soft reassurances that everything will be ok one day, that Peter will try his very best to make it stop hurting. 

 

When Deaton manages to get the library doors open a few hours later, John finds Stiles and Peter fast asleep under one of the reading tables. 

 

//

 

Laura finds the best Yule Log. She parades around with it until it’s time for it to be lit, telling anyone who will stop to listen about how she found it.

 

They light the Log after dinner, Talia helping Laura light all the candles from its flame. The flickering candlelight gives the room a mellow, communal warmth. Everyone is silent during the lighting, making their wishes. Stiles isn’t sure what to wish for, so he just wishes to be happy. The children then crowd around Joseph who begins to tell traditional werewolf fairytales.

 

Stiles ends up squished next to Peter on a loveseat. Peter moves his arm, putting it around Stiles shoulders. The heat from the fire makes Stiles feel sleepy, he slips down in his seat effectively nuzzling into Peter’s chest. 

 

“Is this ok?” 

 

“Of course.” Peter’s voice is smooth and rich. It reminds Stiles of the silk sheets he’s sleeping on upstairs. 

 

“You can fall asleep if you want,” Peter murmurs, “I’ll carry you up later.”

 

“Not a damsel, or a child.”

 

Peter begins to play with Stiles hair. That makes Stiles melt, a contented feeling simmering in his veins. 

 

//

 

What happens is this:

 

Stiles leans over the table and kisses Peter on the mouth. Peter moans, opening his mouth and allowing Stiles to lick inside. Peter tastes like cinnamon sugar cookies. Stiles tangles a hand in Peter’s hair, tugging at the strands at the back of Peter’s neck.

 

That’s when Peter pulls him over the table. Stiles lands in Peter’s lap, a little breathless. Peter grins and they’re kissing again. Hands roving over each other’s bodies, Stiles paws almost desperately at Peter’s shirt. He manages to slip a hand beneath the fabric, drags his blunt human nails down Peter’s side. 

 

They’re both so hard, so needy and Peter goes to rub Stiles through Stiles’s trousers. Stiles whines into Peter’s mouth. God he wants this so bad. He wants Peter so bad. 

 

Peter is whispering dirty promises into Stiles ear as he sneaks a hand into Stiles trousers. Telling Stiles how beautiful he is, how he’s going to be so good to Stiles, how he’s going to make him scream. Stiles is a hot ball of aching need. He writhes on Peter’s lap.

 

“I love you,” Peter murmurs against Stiles ear and it’s wonderful and perfect and Stiles loves Peter too, so goddamn much and….

 

And Stiles wakes up. 

 

// 

 

What really happens is this:

 

Stiles gets roped into help preparing for the Solstice in between the games and activities. Deaton, Talia’s emissary, will be leading the ceremony but Stiles particular knack for flora magic makes him useful. 

 

Deaton gets him to weave protective wreaths. It’s therapeutic work. Peter comes to watch him weave when he can get away from Talia’s seemingly never ending list of things to do. It’s oddly peaceful, being with Peter while he crafts.

 

“It’s amazing how much you’ve progressed,” Peter comments. Stiles looks up from his work. He’s got red ribbon in his mouth and he’s struggling to tie a bow.

 

“Was that sarcastic?”

 

Peter tilts his head, making his  _ don’t-be-stupid-Stiles _ face. It’s a testament to how long they’ve known each other that Stiles recognises Peter’s many expressions. 

 

“The last time we were together, you were fourteen and kept accidentally making orchids grow through the cracks in the balcony. Now you’re weaving protective charms into solstice wreaths. I’m proud of you.” 

 

Stiles ducks his head, not wanting Peter to see him blush. 

 

“Peter there you are, I thought you were hiding the presents for the scavenger hunt,” Talia says, appearing in the doorway. She pauses a second before chuckling and pointing to above their heads. “Stiles you’ve made mistletoe grow.”

 

Stiles looks up and sure enough mistletoe is sprouting from the ceiling.

 

“Shit sorry, I’ll clear it up.”

 

“You have to kiss first,” Talia says. Her smile is smug enough to match Peter’s. 

 

“Talia,” Peter growls.

 

“It is tradition,” Stiles says, hoping that if he stares hard enough then the mistletoe will shrivel up and die. It stays stubbornly put. 

 

“Exactly,” Talia says, “ _ tradition _ .”

 

Stiles shrugs, leans over the table and kisses Peter on the mouth. It’s sweet and chaste. When Stiles pulls back, Peter’s eyes have glazed over in mild surprise. Stiles goes back to his ribbon tying so he doesn’t have to look at Peter’s face and Talia slips away unnoticed. 

 

//

 

Stiles wakes up after an erotic dream about Peter Hale and tries not to panic. So he’s in love with his best friend. That’s ok. Claudia was John’s best friend, people fall in love with their best friend all the time. The remnants of the dream flutter around his eyes like butterflies. Peter’s voice, low and sinful in his ear. The warmth of Peter’s skin, the weight of his hands. Stiles sighs, dragging a hand over his face. 

 

He’s in love with Peter Hale, newly minted alpha, his longest and most trusted friend. 

 

This is going to end badly.

 

//

 

Stiles does what he normally does when he’s confused or anxious; he brews himself a large pot of his Mother’s cinnamon hot chocolate, with whipped cream and marshmallows and hides himself in the library for the day. He finds himself a huge, thick folklore textbook, arranges the window seat cushions to perfect plumpness and builds himself a cosy reading nest. 

 

From the window he can see assorted Hale family members having a snowball fight. Laura is hiding behind a makeshift snow fort with her Aunt Elinor and twin cousins, Sophia and Marianne. Elinor seems to be doing most of the work whilst the children make rows of tiny snowmen. 

 

Stiles drinks his hot chocolate, only burning the tip of his tongue and settles in to read. He quickly loses track of time and before he knows it the sun is setting, streaking the cerulean sky with orange and gold. Stiles yawns, snapping his fingers. The nearby candles light themselves with a soft sizzle. The candle flames twist and flicker, the light falling across something that casts a large shadow. 

 

Peter comes to sit at the other end of the window seat. 

 

“Hot chocolate and ancient tomes,” Peter comments. His tone is soft. Mild. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Stiles shakes his head, leaning over to carefully place the book on the ground. Peter slides along the seat, moving some of the pillows out of the way. He reaches for Stiles cheek, cupping it as if it were a precious stone, rubbing his thumb across the skin. He rests his forehead against Stiles.

 

“I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

 

_ Unlikely  _ Stiles thinks, closing his eyes. Peter smells earthy, like the woods. It’s a scent that reminds Stiles of spring. 

 

“Dinner will be soon, please come eat with us, you skipped lunch today.”

 

Stiles nods, leaning back as Peter stands. Peter leans over and presses his lips to Stiles hair, a fleeting memory of a kiss before he leaves.

 

Stiles turns to look out the window at the swirling snow in the darkness and tries not to cry. 

 

//

 

Claudia always said to Stiles that sometimes pain is good because it shows that you’re alive. But pain can be addictive. 

 

Being in love with Peter is an addictive pain. It’s like Stiles has learned how to swallow starlight. It’s molten in his throat, a ginger root and iron heartache. He could drink an entire lake and not ease the burn. 

 

The worst is when he forgets. When he’s laughing and joking with Peter, trading in sarcastic banter like when they were young. Peter will touch the crook of his elbow, Stiles will nudge against Peter’s shoulder. Wolves are tactile creatures, Stiles is used to the contact but every touch from Peter makes his blood sing. 

 

When Stiles remembers that Peter is just a friend, the burn intensifies. He’s going to be consumed one day, nothing but bone and ash.

 

Stiles guesses he’ll burn that bridge when he gets to it.

 

//

 

The night before the Solstice, the Hales always have an extravagant firework display. Stiles spends most the day in bed, feigning illness until John makes it very clear that Stiles makes an appearance at the firework display or else. Stiles bundles himself up in as many knitted items as his body can wear and finds a quiet patch of balcony to lean against and mope. 

 

“Nothing that you are wearing matches.”

 

“I don’t care Lydia.”

 

Lydia, dressed impeccably in a ruby fur lined cloak with a white fur muff and matching hat, rolls her eyes. 

 

“I assumed that you and Peter would be cosied up beneath a blanket somewhere, sharing cocoa.”

 

Stiles tries to recede further into the knitwear. He doesn’t want to talk about Peter. Or think about Peter. Because if he starts thinking about Peter, he’ll start imagining kissing Peter or touching Peter or waking up next to Peter in bed and then he’ll be sad.

 

“Are you having a lover’s tiff?” Lydia asks, removing a manicured hand from the muff to pick up a champagne flute from a passing waiter. 

 

“We’re not together,” Stiles grumbles. 

 

The first firework goes off, a burst of gold and cranberry red against the clear night sky. 

 

“I’m sure Peter will apologise for whatever he’s done and you’ll be back to being in each others pockets soon enough.”

 

“Can we just watch the fireworks in silence please,” Stiles snaps. Lydia tilts her head, her look calculating and sharp. 

 

“You’re genuinely upset, what happened?”

 

Stiles opens his mouth to make a sarcastic reply but promptly shuts it when Peter makes his way through the crowd towards them. 

 

“Stiles there you are, John said you’d recovered enough to come down. Hello Lydia.”

 

Lydia gives Stiles another calculating look as she sips her champagne.

 

“I’m going to find Jackson,” she announces, “but we will be talking later Stiles.”

 

“Looking forward to it,” Stiles mutters. Lydia narrows her eyes at him before gliding away. Peter comes to stand next to Stiles. Despite Stiles many layers, he can feel the heat radiating from Peter’s body. He wants to burrow into Peter’s jacket and steal that warmth. 

 

“What was that about?”

  
“I don’t know, Lydia’s being weird.”

 

Stiles is not looking forward to Lydia tracking him down and forcing a confession of feelings out of him. She’s going to be brutal. Stiles wonders if he can barricade himself into his room before the end of the night to avoid her. 

 

“Nothing that you’re wearing matches, did you get dressed in the dark?”

 

“I don’t care Peter, it’s freezing and I want to be warm. Knitwear is warm.” 

 

Peter unbuttons his jacket. He yanks Stiles close to his chest before doing some of the buttons back up around them both. Stiles is cocooned between soft fur lining of the jacket and Peter’s warm, hard body. He can feel Peter’s breath on the back of his neck. 

 

“Can’t have my favourite mage freezing to death can I?” Peter murmurs against the shell of Stiles ear. Stiles doesn’t trust his mouth so he remains silent, concentrating extra hard on the fireworks. 

 

//

 

The Solstice celebration begins before dawn. Stiles helps Deaton to set up the altar and light the candles, then takes his place beside his father. Deaton conducts the ceremony as the sun peeks over the horizon, the early morning light covering the whole world in a soft yellow filter. The air is sharp and fresh. The scent of pine and candle wax floats on the wind. 

 

The quiet serenity of dawn calms Stiles in a way he didn’t think was possible. Despite his anxieties surrounding Peter, the fact that his heart feels as if it wants to leap out of his chest and present itself to Peter like a bloody offering of passion, here in this moment, Stiles is at peace. He knows that he has to deal with his feelings eventually, fears that Peter will ask him to be his emissary and nothing more but for now, Stiles lets it all slip away. 

 

Stiles closes his eyes, letting the light and Deaton’s words wash over him. Before he closes them he thinks he sees a white raven fly overhead. But he can’t be certain. 

 

//

 

Lunch is a riotous affair. Stiles is place between his father and Joseph and has to keep an eye on his plate at all time to prevent one of twins, Marianne or Sophia he can’t tell which, from stealing his roast potatoes. Joseph allows Stiles to win a cracker pull and he ends up with a blue paper crown on his head. He spends most of the meal talking with Caoimhe, Joseph’s sister who is sat opposite him, about his time at Driodheachd. 

 

After lunch, everyone piles into one of the drawing rooms for gifts. Stiles gets a new green leather notebook from his father and a copy of the Hale bestiary from Talia and Joseph. Joseph ruffles his hair when he thanks them, while Talia just nods. 

 

While assorted Hale children are ripping into their own gifts, Peter comes up behind Stiles. 

 

“Can I talk to you, in private?”

 

Stiles shrugs, handing his gifts over to John before following Peter out into the hallway. Peter takes him to another drawing room, ushering Stiles to sit in one end of the sofa. Peter sits close, their knees touching. He looks as if he’s about to pick his next words very carefully. 

 

“Stiles, would you do me the honour of making me the happiest alpha in the world?”

 

_ Oh _ Stiles thinks,  _ He wants me to be his emissary.  _ Disappointment fills Stiles stomach, leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He knows how much of an honour being asked to be an emissary is but he can’t be Peter’s. Stiles stands up abruptly. 

 

“This isn’t going to work.”

 

“What? Stiles…”

 

“I’m sorry, I just can’t be that for you.”

 

Stiles throat has gone dry, he can feel tears welling up. His heart is beating so fast, Stiles worries it will break. Peter stands up. His face is carefully controlled but his eyes looked pained.  

 

“I’m sorry, I clearly misread the nature of our relationship. I thought we were on the same page but evidently not.” 

 

Peter strides from the room. The soft click of the door behind him is enough to send Stiles crashing to the floor. He only notices that he’s crying when the tears drip onto his shaking hands. 

 

//

 

“Who are you writing to?”

 

“No one,” Stiles retorts, hiding his letter from view. Heather leans over him, causing Stiles to flatten himself against his desk. He doesn’t even know who let Heather into the boys dorms but he wishes they’d stop. Heather is so nosy. 

 

“He only writes to two people,” Danny says from behind his book. “Take a guess?”

 

Danny, Stiles has decided, is a terrible dorm mate. They’ve been sharing a room for two years and Danny betrays him this way. A terrible, terrible dorm mate. 

 

“Ooh are you writing to  _ Peter _ ?” Heather asks, gleefully reaching for Peter’s last letter which Stiles had stupidly left within her reach. 

 

“Hey, give it back!”

 

Heather dances out of the way of Stiles range, her golden curls bouncing as she reads. 

 

“Peter is  _ such _ a romantic,” Heather says, putting a hand over her heart, “Danny, look!”

 

She thrusts the letter in front of Danny’s face. Danny puts his book down to read. 

 

“It’s not a romantic letter,” Stiles snaps, “He’s my best friend, stop being weird.”

 

“I don’t know Stiles,” Danny says, “this is verging on being a love letter.”

 

“The boy is smitten,” Heather agrees.

 

Stiles snatches the letter back. Peter is not interested in him. The entire notion is ridiculous, they’re friends. In fact they’re best friends, of course their relationship is intimate. Heather and Danny are just doing it to get a rise out of him. 

 

“You’re terrible people and I hate you,” Stiles says. Heather has the courtesy to look slightly guilty. Danny shrugs and goes back to his book. 

 

// 

 

John finds Stiles in his room. Stiles has begun packing, though he can’t seem to decide whether to take the suit Peter gave him. Every time he sees it hanging in the wardrobe fresh tears start to fall. 

 

“Stiles, what happened?”

 

“Nothing,” Stiles lies. He’ll leave the suit behind, his eyes are starting to hurt. 

 

“Mieczysław,” John says. Stiles spine straightens automatically. He has a sudden urge to both hide himself under the bed and to chuck anything vaguely dangerous in his possession out of the window. Then he remembers he’s not ten anymore. 

 

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it. I just think it’s best if I leave.”

 

“But I thought, Peter was supposed to…”

 

Stiles shoves more of his possessions into his bag. He just wants to leave. If he leaves then everyone can continue the celebrations in peace, they won’t have to deal with Stiles messy feelings.

 

“Peter asked something of me that I just cannot give him. He deserves a dedicated emissary.”

 

“Emissary?” John repeats. He gently grabs Stiles arm to stop him shoving a book into an already overflowing bag. “Stiles, Peter was proposing. As in marriage.” 

 

Stiles’s head snaps around.

 

“What?”

 

There’s no possible way, his father must be mistaken. A tiny, delicate glimmer of hope grows in Stiles chest. 

 

“It’s true.”

 

Peter is standing in the doorway. His eyes are red rimmed. Stiles mouth drops open and he splutters.

 

“I… wait. But… you’re not in love with me.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes. 

 

“Stiles I’ve been courting you since you were eleven.”

 

Stiles has to sit down on the bed at that point. John gives him a fatherly pat on the arm as he leaves, giving them some privacy. Peter walks up to Stiles, getting down on one knee before him. 

 

“Perhaps I should have done this properly,” Peter says, taking Stiles hands, “then you wouldn’t have got confused.”

 

“I love you,” Stiles blurts. Peter’s face softens. Stiles adores that smile and how Peter will only ever share it with him forever. He presses a kiss to Stiles fingertips. 

 

“And I you. More than anything.”

 

“I should have asked for clarification earlier, instead of jumping to conclusions.”

 

“Yes you should have. Now, are you going to continue to interrupt or can I propose now?”

 

Stiles snorts, making an impatient gesture. Peter produces the ring, a simple silver band made to look like woven ivy. It’s beautiful. 

 

“Mieczysław Stilinski.”

 

“Oh Gods full name.”

 

“Stiles!”

 

“Sorry, sorry.”

 

“Mieczysław ‘Stiles’ Stilinski, would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?”

 

“I most certainly would.”

 

Peter slips the ring onto Stiles finger before devouring his mouth. Peter kisses like a man who has only been fed on bread and water and Stiles mouth is his first taste of honey. Stiles hands grip Peter’s shirt, pulls Peter as close as he can possibly get him. Peter moans, twisting a hand into Stiles hair and nipping Stiles bottom lip. 

 

“We should probably go reassure the others,” Stiles murmurs, already breathless. 

 

“Later,” Peter growls. He starts kissing Stiles again, licking into Stiles open mouth. Peter’s hand seem to be everywhere, gliding over his skin with teasing, barely there touches. Stiles waves his fingers and the door slams shut. The secure click of the lock results in Peter pushing Stiles down onto the bed and climbing on top of him. Peter sheds his shirt, practically ripping it off. He then pushes Stiles suitcase away with so much force that is slides off the bed and onto the floor. 

 

“Hey, there were some fragile items in there!”

 

Instead of answering, Peter unbuttons Stiles shirt, placing butterfly kisses on each new piece of skin exposed to him. A shiver runs down Stiles spine and he whimpers. He isn’t too sure what to do with his hands, they spasm against the cool silk of the sheets. He’s so hard, his cock twitching in the confines of his underwear. Peter slides their groins together. Stiles gasps as his nerves sizzle with pleasure. 

 

“Is this too fast?” Peter asks, cupping Stiles face. His hand is heavy and warm. Stiles leans in to the touch. “We can slow down or stop if you want.”

 

Stiles shakes his head.

 

“No this is good, I’ve just never… this is my first…” He trails off, heat blooming in his cheeks. Peter smiles, nuzzling against Stiles face. 

 

“I’ll make this good for you, I promise.”

 

Peter unbuttons Stiles trousers, gently pulling the trousers and Stiles underwear down. He throws both onto the floor. Stiles length is dripping precum but Peter ignores it, instead sliding between Stiles thighs to bite bruises into the smooth flesh. Stiles bucks up at the satisfying sting but Peter’s hand on his hip keeps Stiles in place. 

 

“Please,” Stiles moans, unsure of what he’s pleading for. 

 

“In due time sweetheart. Gods, the way you smell right now.”

 

“Good?” Stiles asks, his voice shaky. Peter finishes sucking a small constellation into Stiles inner thigh. 

 

“Amazing, your arousal and love and happiness. It’s heady.” 

 

Peter starts to lap at the head of Stiles dick. It causes Stiles to writhe, his left hand coming to tangle itself in Peter’s hair while his right goes to his mouth to cover his moans. Peter stops licking. 

 

“It’s ok Stiles, take your hand away, I want to hear you.”

 

Peter takes Stiles hand, kissing the fingertips before guiding it into his hair. Peter takes Stiles wholly into his mouth then. Stiles lets forth a litany of curses and moans, overwhelming by the wet heat of Peter’s mouth. Peter starts to suck and it feels so good that Stiles drags his nails across Peter’s scalp. Peter makes a pleased hum. It vibrates through Stiles skin. Stiles wonders if this is what bliss is.

 

“I love you,” Stiles gasps. He starts repeating it over and over, as if it’s a prayer, as if he’s forgotten all other words except this. Peter rumbles approvingly, starts to suck harder and faster. He seems determined to make Stiles come as quickly as possible, taking Stiles all the way into his throat. 

 

Stiles comes with Peter’s name on his lips. 

 

Stiles melts into the bed, completely boneless. Peter straddles Stiles thighs, tugging his cock out of his trousers and finishing himself off. He splatters Stiles chest with cum before slumping to the side. Peter throws a leg over Stiles waist and starts idly rubbing his cum into Stiles skin. Stiles makes a face.

 

“Is this going to happen every time we have sex?”

 

“Don’t ruin the afterglow Stiles.”

 

Stiles opens his mouth to argue but Peter pulls him into a lazy kiss to distract him. Stiles is fine with this kind of distraction.

 

//

 

Stiles wakes up with a white raven on his chest. It tilts its head to one side before pecking Stiles on the forehead. 

 

“Ow, get off!”

 

The raven makes a sound that could be laughter before hopping off of Stiles chest. Stiles sits up. He’s been lying in the snow though has left no imprint behind. The fire crackles to the left of him. This time only wood is burning. The woman from before is sat beside him, her cloak is lilypad green this time with a gold fastening that glimmers in the fire light. 

 

_ “You almost lost him little cailleach,”  _ she says, stoking the fire.  _ “I could not understand how one so smart could be so oblivious.”  _

 

“Perhaps I could have benefited from less cryptic guidance Goddess,” Stiles replies. Branwen throws her head back as she laughs. 

 

_ “It is a good thing I like you Mieczysław.” _

 

The raven fixes its gold eye on Stiles and he reckons that it is very much a good thing that Branwen likes him. She smiles at him. It teeters on the edge of threatening. Branwen reaches out, brushing Stiles hair out of his face. 

 

_ “You have your new beginning, Mieczysław, my little cailleach. And my patronage. Use both wisely.” _

 

“I will Goddess.”

 

Branwen kisses his forehead.

 

Stiles wakes up with Peter’s face pressed against his neck. Peter snuffles in his sleep, the arm around Stiles waist tightening. Stiles grins and goes back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Driodheachd - Scottish Gaelic for Godliness  
> Cailleach - Irish for Witch  
> Faoladh - Irish for Werewolf 
> 
> Branwen - Goddess of Love and Beauty - turns up in Welsh and Celtic mythology.


End file.
